


A Doll Dizzy Kinda Feelin’

by kesdax



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-14 23:45:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3429959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kesdax/pseuds/kesdax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her laughter is throaty and silky all at the same time and Peggy thinks it’s the most beautiful sound she has ever heard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Doll Dizzy Kinda Feelin’

Peggy doesn't think she's ever seen the automat this empty. Then again, she's never been here this late and it's just her in her usual booth and one other customer at a table by the door. He has to be in his late sixties. Grey and white tufts of hair sneak out from beneath his dark brown trilby hat and wrinkles deepen the frown lines on his face as he intently scans the newspaper he's holding in one hand. In the other, he grips his fork loosely, a piece of apple pie dangling off the end that looks dangerously close to falling off. It's taken him the better part of forty five minutes to get through only two thirds of that pie. Every time Angie walks behind his table, she rolls her eyes dramatically and Peggy has to fight not to laugh.

Her gaze stays on Angie, watching as she cleans up; wiping down tables and stacking chairs. The muscles bulge in her arms as she lifts up a chair, turning it upside down and depositing it onto the table. There is a strongness there that Peggy has never seen before or expected from someone of her stature. But then she remembers how the buffoons at the SSR always underestimate her. She really should know by now that appearances are deceiving.

Angie looks up, smiling shyly at Peggy across the room. Realising she's staring, Peggy quickly gulps down some of her tea, hoping the cup's wide enough to hide her blush. She can feel her cheeks burning as if she had been out in the sun all day and really hopes Angie is too far away to see it.

Her tea has gone cold and it tastes disgusting and bitter and sour all at once as she swallows it down. Tea should never be drunk cold and she places the cup back down on its saucer and decides not to ask Angie for a refill as she heads over.

"You didn't have to wait for me," Angie murmurs, wiping at the table top half-heartedly with a cloth.

"I don't mind," says Peggy and she really doesn't. She's got nothing better to do tonight anyway other than sitting alone in her room at the Griffith wondering were Howard Stark's inventions are. Peggy takes another sip of her tea as if to prove her point. Forgetting that it's gone cold, she grimaces as the liquid makes its way down her throat.

"Can I at least get you something else?"

Peggy shakes her head, still full from her own slice of pie and unable to stomach the thought of anymore tea. Angie just shrugs and heads back to work. She's only got the floor left to mop and the last two tables to clear when the old man finally folds up his newspaper. Angie drums her fingernails impatiently on the counter top as she leans heavily against it and Peggy can tell it's taking everything she has not to sigh loudly and roll her eyes in frustration as the old man takes his sweet time to pull his coat on.

As Angie rings up his bill, Peggy notes that he hasn't even finished the pie he's been working on for close to an hour now and - judging by the dark glower on Angie's face as he leaves - he hasn't bothered to leave a tip either. Angie swings the "We are closed" sign around hard enough to pull it off its chain and quickly locks the door behind him, still glaring like he had just insulted her mother. The light chuckle escapes Peggy's mouth before she can stop it - actually it's more like a giggle, but she's not about to admit that out loud. She can't help it. She's never seen Angie look so furious with righteous indignation.

"What are you laughing at, English?" she asks, turning the glower onto Peggy, but that only makes her laugh harder. "Here," says Angie, tossing a damp cloth in Peggy's direction. "Make yourself useful."

The cloth lands a few feet short of Peggy's booth and, for reasons she can't possibly fathom, this just adds to her mirth. She gets up and picks it up anyway, hearing Angie mutter, "What the hell did they slip in your drink?" and by the time Peggy's finished wiping down the two tables, she's sobered up a bit.

With Peggy’s help, it doesn’t take them long to finish cleaning up and the only thing Angie has left to do is put the mop away. She settles for tossing it into a supply closet, uncaring of the clatter that sounds from within and shrugging at Peggy’s raised eyebrow.

“I’ll sort it in the morning,” she says. “Let’s get out of here before Miss Fry locks us out for the night.”

Peggy is in silent agreement with that. Miriam Fry has been on the warpath as of late and Peggy’s already been on her radar far too many times to count. It’s not easy conducting espionage with a mother hen breathing down your neck at the most inconvenient times of day.

For some inexplicable reason, the architect for this particular establishment thought it would be a good idea to place the light switch behind the counter and not by the door where it would be more accessible. Perhaps it was to stop mischievous customers from plunging diners into darkness, or maybe, whoever it was, just didn’t think an automat should be open this late. Peggy doesn’t think so either and she can feel a yawn coming on and exhaustion itching at her eyes.

Angie hits the switch and it takes Peggy a moment to adjust to the sudden gloom. The only light source pools through the windows from the street outside, a faint orange glow that casts a strange ambience around the deserted automat. It’s creepy and unnerving, making Peggy desperate to go home.

“Crap,” Angie hisses in the dark. Peggy can make out her silhouette still hovering behind the counter. “I forgot my purse. I think it’s under the counter.”

Peggy walks around to the other side to help. She can’t really see much with her back to the light and she fumbles around blindly, her hand reaching out and groping something that is decidedly firmer than any handbag she has ever owned.

The sudden yelp of surprise that Angie lets out is the final click that she needs to confirm what it is she has just, unwittingly, copped a feel of.

“Oh my god,” Peggy stammers, heat covering her entire body as she steps back in embarrassment. She’s not expecting the giggle that comes from somewhere in Angie’s direction and she is inherently grateful that it’s pitch black right now and she can’t see the look on Angie’s face or, worse, that Angie can’t see hers. “I’m so sorry.”

She can practically _feel_ Angie rolling her eyes at her. “Relax, English. At least you’re much better looking than most of the usual dolts that feel me up.”

Peggy doesn’t know what to say to that, so she says nothing when Angie breezes past her as if this is a perfectly normal, everyday conversation.

As if Peggy _hadn’t_ just grabbed her arse.

*

Breakfast at the Griffith is always an occasion. There’s always gossip to be heard and plenty of food, but most mornings Peggy is in such a rush that she wolfs down whatever is on her plate, smiles apologetically to the girls telling her about so and so in room 58 who was caught by Miss Fry sneaking a man in through the sewage line. Peggy hadn’t even known there was a sewage line right underneath the Griffith, but she doesn’t have the time to ask about it further before she is rushing off to the SSR or a meeting with Mr Jarvis or whatever world saving exploit she has in store that day.

Today is Sunday and Peggy has no plans beyond do as little as possible. Which is why when Angie slips into the seat beside her and makes a jibe about being astonished to see her, Peggy merely rolls her eyes good-naturedly and goes back to her fruit and her morning newspaper. She doesn't get past the front page before Angie starts nattering in her ear. Peggy's not usually one for gossiping and is glad for her hectic mornings so she can avoid it, but there is something about the way Angie tells a story that hooks Peggy in and doesn't let go.

Angie talks animatedly, breakfast mostly forgotten as she puts on all the right voices that just seem to make the story all the more richer. Peggy is so enthralled she doesn't notice Dottie take the seat opposite her until she buts in with, "Who are you talking about?"

Angie tells her in a breath, barely losing her stride as she nears the end of her story.

"And then she said to him," Angie says, her voice bright with delight as she takes a breath to ready herself for the punchline and leans in closer to Peggy, resting a hand on Peggy's leg to hold herself steady. Her hand is warm and solid on Peggy's thigh and the heat from it seems to radiate throughout Peggy’s entire body until it seems to burn through the fabric of her skirt. Everything else tunes out, the sounds of the other girls eating falls silent, the lights seem to dim a little around her, with Angie shining bright in front of her. She can’t even smell her breakfast anymore, is aware of nothing until all she can feel is Angie’s hand on her thigh.

Dottie’s shrill laugh snaps her out of it and Peggy refocuses, realising Angie is staring at her expectantly.

“Don’t you get it?” Angie asks, face falling slightly.

“Y-yes,” says Peggy, her laughter ringing out and sounding false to her ears. Angie doesn’t seem to notice and squeezes Peggy’s thigh briefly before letting go. Peggy isn’t even sure Angie is aware that she did it, but it still startles the life out of her. Her body seems to shake from it and her hands go wild, knocking over her near empty glass of orange juice. The juice seeps into the white table cloth like a rushing wave and Peggy mutters a curse under her breath, apologising profusely to anyone who can hear her.

“Just a minor spillage,” says Dottie cheerily, mopping up the mess with her napkin. “Nothing to worry about.”

 _Still_ , Peggy thinks, not entirely comfortable with the knowing smile that flashes at her from across the table.

*

At the sound of a knock on her door, Peggy quickly drops the pistol back into her handbag. It’s nearing midnight and she isn’t – not that she ever is – expecting any visitors. The only person who she can think of at this late an hour must be Miss Fry and she thinks back belatedly, trying to remember which one of Miss Fry’s many rules she had conveniently forgotten existed. Peggy’s pretty sure she’s been on the up and up for at least a week… unless, of course, Mr Jarvis tried to pay a visit or left a message for her. But he’s become more subtle over the last few months that she has known him and decides it can’t be that.

When Peggy opens the door, she thinks she should have known.

“Oh, good. You’re up,” says Angie, breezing past her and into the room before Peggy can either invite her in or tell her to go away.

“What can I do for you?” Peggy asks, more amused than annoyed.

Angie holds up the bottle of Schnapps in her hand. “Let’s get sauced.”

Normally, Peggy would be far too busy or far too exhausted to agree. But after the day she’s had… running around fetching Dooley’s coffee and listening to Thompson and the rest of them speak as if she weren’t there…not to mention being stuck in a car with Mr Jarvis for the better part of the evening, listening to him lament about his grandmother’s famous scone recipe. She thinks she deserves a drink after that.

“I’ll find us some glasses,” says Peggy and something flutters in her stomach at the sight of the wide smile on Angie’s face.

She’s doesn’t find glasses and doesn’t really want to risk sneaking downstairs to borrow some. Instead they have to resort to the cups from Peggy’s tea set and settle down on Peggy’s bed, sitting side by side as they lean against the wall.

“Rough day?” Peggy asks as Angie swallows down her Schnapps in one big gulp.

Angie nods. “Just the usual,” she says casually as she refills her cup. Her eyes avoid Peggy’s as she grips the cup tightly in her hands and Peggy can tell that the “usual” has been more a little grating today.

She doesn’t push, mainly for fear that the conversation will turn around onto her own day and that’s not something she is willing to talk about anytime soon. The companionable silence is nice anyway and Peggy sips at her drink, conscious of Angie next to her, warm and soft with her leg and arm resting against hers. It’s not until she is refilling her cup for the fourth time that she notices she’s been drinking faster than she would usually and now that she is aware of it, the alcohol rushes to her head in a tingling buzz.

Next to her, Angie giggles.

“What?” says Peggy, frowning when she spills Schnapps all over her bedspread when she misses the cup in her hand by about a good inch.

Angie grins at her wolfishly. “You’re drunk, Carter.”

Something about the way Angie says her last name flips a switch inside of her, setting her nerve endings on fire. It’s ridiculous and she partly blames the alcohol, but also herself for allowing this to continue when she should have put a stop to it weeks ago and blocked out… whatever these _feelings_ coursing through her are.

“I could say the same thing about you, Martinelli,” says Peggy. Her mouth stumbles over the name and it takes her a few tries to get it right, but by that point Angie is laughing so hard it no longer matters.

Her laughter is throaty and silky all at the same time and Peggy thinks it’s the most beautiful sound she has ever heard. She watches the way Angie’s eyes crinkling as she laughs, how it makes her face look young and careless, how her mouth curves upwards, lighting up her whole face.

Angie stops laughing and stares at Peggy with her eyes heavy lidded and cast in shadow from the dim lamp by the bed. Everything is so stark and clear to Peggy; she can smell Angie’s perfume, something subtle and flowery and somehow just so _Angie_ and she wonders how she could never have noticed it before now. How could she have possibly missed all these little things that make up Angie, that define her?

Unwittingly, Peggy thinks about Steve. She can’t stop his face from filling her mind and she recalls how different it had been with him. A war time love, born out of the desperation and fear that a war will always bring, yet still strong and true, much like Steve himself.

He would always hold a place in her heart but, she thinks, as Angie continues to look at her, there might just be a little room for someone else.

Except she can’t.

She can’t lose anyone else no matter how she feels and she can sense with a cold, bitter certainty that this is exactly what will happen if she allows this to go any further.

So she doesn’t let it.

As if sensing Peggy’s sudden shift in mood, Angie leans over her, her face coming so close to Peggy’s that she whips back, startled, and thuds her head against the wall.

“W-what are you doing?” Peggy murmurs, half terrified of the answer and half cursing at the throbbing in her head.

“You’re hogging the booze,” says Angie, reaching for the bottle still gripped tightly in Peggy’s hand. Feeling foolish over her reaction to something so innocent, Peggy let’s her take it and edges ever so slightly away from her. “Learn to share, English.”

*

Later, in the calm after the storm, Peggy isn’t surprised.

She’s just annoyed at herself for not realising sooner.

Of _course_ someone like Dottie, someone with all that training, that way of life, would notice. Perhaps she had even noticed before Peggy had herself.

It was by pure chance that Peggy headed to the Griffith after they caught up with Ivchenko, Dottie nowhere in sight. It was the only place she could think of and the sudden, vice like tightening in her gut compelled her to go before the thought of grabbing another agent to come with her even crossed her mind.

Thank God for Mr Jarvis, who had better sense and better judgement than Peggy, frozen in place at the sight of Dottie with a knife to Angie’s throat. She can still remember the razor sharp edge, how shiny it was as the light reflected from it. How easy it would slice through Angie’s skin.

Peggy could do nothing, without risk to Angie’s life, but plea for Dottie to let her go, take Peggy as hostage instead. Dottie had merely laughed, fully aware of Peggy’s reputation and far more believing of it than any male counterpart would be.

There was nothing Peggy could do but watch as the knife dug deeper into Angie’s flesh when she took a hesitant step forward, the sound of Angie’s gasp for breath, suffused with fear, ringing in her ears.

It came as a shock to everyone – but probably to Mr Jarvis the most – when there was a loud thump and the sound of something shattering and Dottie collapsed to the floor in a heap. Peggy reached for Angie automatically before Dottie had even reached the ground, grabbing her wrist and pulling her out of her harm’s way. Behind Dottie stood Mr Jarvis, looking pale and shaken with his arms still raised from where he had it Dottie over the head with a flower vase.

“Goodness gracious me,” he said faintly and then promptly collapsed in a pile next to Dottie Underwood.

Later, back at the SSR – which looks, upon reflection, like it has seen far better days – Peggy recites her story for what feels like the hundredth time. She has no patience for Thompson and his bureaucracy and it takes her a moment to realise he’s bitter about not being the one to bring in Dottie. He was hoping for a two for two, after taking down Ivchenko. But, right now, Peggy could care less about his ego and briskly cuts him off when he asks her the same question for the fourth time, just worded differently.

“I’ll give you a full report in the morning,” she tells him and walks abruptly away before he can stop her. She heads for the conference room, which her eyes have never left since Angie went in there to be debriefed by Sousa. She wonders if, like her, Angie has been asked the same questions over and over again.

Sousa looks up from his notes when Peggy knocks lightly on the glass and opens the door.

“How about we finish this in the morning,” she suggests. Sousa takes one look at her and then down at Angie, staring distantly ahead at nothing, before nodding briefly and climbing to his feet.

“I’ll get you a cab,” he says on his way past and she smiles at him gratefully.

“Hey,” says Peggy, touching Angie’s shoulder lightly to get her attention. Angie jumps at the contact and Peggy smiles down at her sadly before pulling her hand away. “Let’s go.”

Remarkably and somewhat unsurprisingly, Angie holds it together all through her debriefing and the trip back to the Griffith. It’s not until they are alone, climbing the stairs that Peggy notes her trembling hands and the way she bites down on her bottom lip. Peggy takes her straight to Angie’s room, grateful that everyone appears to have either gone to bed early or are downstairs gossiping. Angie’s hands are shaking too much to get the keys in the lock and eventually Peggy takes the key and does it for her, following Angie inside and directing her to sit on the bed.

Angie stares down at the floor, not even glancing up when Peggy starts rummaging through her belongings. Maybe the ugly brown carpet really is that fascination or, more likely, Angie is still in shock. Peggy finds what she is looking for and heads back to the bed, kneeling in front of Angie and pressing the near empty bottle of Schnapps into her hands.

“Here,” she says, “drink this.”

Incomprehension stares back at her and Angie doesn’t move until Peggy unscrews the lid and leans back slightly so Angie can swallow the rest of the liquid down in one hearty gulp.

“Better?” Peggy asks. Angie nods. “Good.”

She gets up to leave, startled when Angie grabs her wrist, pulling her back.

“Where do you think you’re going, English?”

“I –” Peggy begins, unsure of what to do. Everything is churning inside of her, like a raging beast that she can’t control and she has to get out of there before it escapes and tears them both apart.

“Stay,” Angie says, her voice so small and vulnerable that Peggy hesitates as it constricts her chest. She can’t help thinking that this was all her fault. If she had never come to stay at the Griffith… if she had never let Angie talk her into it, Dottie never would have followed her here.

She put Angie in danger.

Just like she did with Colleen.

“I can’t,” Peggy says finally.

“Why?” Angie asks. Her mouth circles around the word and Peggy marvels at how _pink_ her lips look, how soft… and she’s doing that thing again, letting her mind wander to places where it shouldn’t. And this is exactly why she should leave.

Right now.

“It would be… inappropriate,” Peggy finally settles on and bristles when Angie snorts at her.

“I think we’re way past that, English,” Angie says.

“W-what?”

Angie rolls her eyes. “You know, for a super secret spy, you’re pretty clueless.”

“What?” Peggy says again, feeling progressively more stupid and hot and _dear lord_ Angie needs to stop looking at her like that.

“God, do I have to spell it out?” says Angie, sounding increasingly frustrated.

 _Yes, please spell it out,_ Peggy thinks, struggling to comprehend anything beyond the thunderous thumping of her heart.

When Angie reaches out and grabs her by the back of her neck, pulling her downwards and crashing their lips together, Peggy _finally_ gets it. She’s pretty sure she just let out a humiliating squeak, but it gets lost somewhere in Angie’s mouth and, right now, with Angie’s hands curling around her hips, she doesn’t really care.

Angie pulls away and Peggy lets out a breathless – and most positively undignified – “oh.”

“Stay,” Angie asks again. Her breath is warm against Peggy’s chin and she looks so _lost_ as she stares into Peggy’s eyes that Peggy can do nothing but nod and gently push Angie back until she is lying on the bed.

Still Peggy hesitates, watching as Angie turns on her side to face the wall. There’s plenty of room for Peggy to join her but she can’t ignore the screaming voice in the back of her head (which irritatingly sounds like Mr Jarvis) telling her that Angie - that _she_ , as well probably - isn’t in her right mind right now.

“I ain’t got all day over here, Carter,” Angie mumbles and Peggy laughs through her uncertainty, climbing onto the bed and lying beside Angie. She lies stiff as a board, unsure where to put her arms and unable to get comfortable until Angie huffs, reaches over and grabs Peggy’s arm to pull it over her own waist. “You’re really bad at this.”

Affronted, Peggy pulls Angie towards her, feeling Angie’s soft curves beneath her touch, the warmth from her body seeping into her own. When Angie doesn’t pull away or start accusing Peggy of getting the wrong idea, Peggy finally allows herself to relax.

“Better?” Peggy asks, resting her chin on Angie’s shoulder so she can easily mutter in her ear.

“Much,” Angie confirms. Her voice is soft from tiredness and Peggy lets her sleep, feeling her own exhaustion weighing down on her. It’s strange being allowed this close to Angie without repercussions and although it’s still slightly awkward, she feels like she could remain here forever, never get tired of the feel of Angie pressed up against her, always unearthing and discovering new things about her.

Peggy presses her lips against Angie’s neck, stilling when she feels Angie shift. She hadn’t meant to wake her. But Angie just groans and mutters, “I never liked that Dottie Underwood much anyway” before falling back asleep, undisturbed by Peggy’s laughter.


End file.
